


brothers who share are brothers who care

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Greg turns to shoot him an incredulous glare. “You’re shoving fingers up my arse while I’m sucking off your brother and you tell me to </em>relax?"</p><p>Or, Greg finds himself in not-relationships with both Sherlock and Mycroft that ends in a beneficial arrangement for all involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	brothers who share are brothers who care

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe me if I said that this was supposed to be a simple threesome PWP because I wanted to see Greg spitroasted?
> 
> And, okay, that happens. But you get a random dosage of angst in the beginning because that's apparently how my mind works.

Greg’s played his relationships fast and loose since the divorce, not wanting a repeat of the disaster that found him kicked out of his flat and onto the kerb. He’s too old for the bar-pulling scene, but he’s not quite ready for a relationship—he’s not sure if he ever will be again.

Those two and a combination of other pleasant-sounding excuses are probably why he finds himself with his back against the wall as Sherlock makes a valiant effort to suck his thoughts out through his cock. And, based off the nonsensical groans Greg’s been uttering for the past few minutes, he’s succeeding in his quest.

“Christ,” he gasps, running a hand through Sherlock’s perfect curls. “Fuck.”

Sherlock shoots him an amused glance, making a great show of opening his mouth wider and swallowing Greg completely down.

Greg’s head hits the wall with a sharp thump. “Fuck,” he says again, dragging out the syllable as his pleasure peaks, slumping to the ground when Sherlock finally lets him drop.

Sherlock lets himself out of his trousers, slowly stroking himself off as he stares directly into Greg’s eyes. “You’re surprisingly sensitive for a man of your age,” he says with barely a hitch in his voice. He closes his eyes for a second, cock twitching in his hand as he gets off with a small sigh. “Really need to run some tests to calibrate a baseline.”

 

They never do get to properly measure a baseline; Sherlock throws himself off a building just two weeks later.

\--

Greg’s met Mycroft Holmes multiple times—kidnapped by his cars, scheduled and surprise meetings at both their offices, the works.

But he doesn’t actually _see_ him until Sherlock’s funeral, watching him stand passively with nary a tear in his eyes as his brother’s casket is buried. It hits a chord inside of him, to see someone so apathetic to the death of family, even one as irritating as Sherlock.

So when he corners Mycroft after the service to offer his condolences, he’s only asking to soothe the unsettled feeling in his stomach—to convince himself that even the Holmes’ brothers must show this shred of humanity.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, letting the useless words fall from his mouth first. “If you ever need anything—I know he was a bother for us both, but—” His brain can’t seem to stop whirring, even as the blank mask on Mycroft’s face refuses to crack. “Sherlock was a good man,” he settles on. “And if you ever need an ear from someone who knew all his faces, I’m here.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says stiffly. “I understand that you’re trying to be of help, but trust me when I say this: I don’t need pity. I’ve resigned myself to Sherlock’s early death years ago.”

“You—” Greg can feel the rage crawl up his spine to replace his reflex surprise, and no matter how much his brain tells him that Mycroft’s deliberately trying to rile and disgust him, he still catches on the bait. “I wasn’t _pitying_ you,” he says, voice steadily rising. “I just never thought you’d be so—I was trying to empathise and—”

“Yes, well, I don’t need that, either.” Mycroft shrugs. “If there was anything my brother excelled at, it was causing others pain and worry.”

He can’t help it anymore, not with the anger boiling over his courtesy. “You _machine_ ,” he shouts, red shading his sight and his hands clenching into fists.

But—but he doesn’t punch Mycroft. Oddly enough, Greg pushes himself right into Mycroft’s personal space, grabs the collar of the arse’s perfectly starched shirt with both hands, and forces their mouths together.

He feels an immediate response—one hand running down the back of his jacket, the other cradling his cheek gently, _giving_ even as he bites at Mycroft’s lips in some violent parody of intimacy.

There’s wetness on his cheeks, and it takes him a while to realise that _he_ ’ _s_ crying, sobbing even as he pushes further into Mycroft. “How can you be so cold?” he asks, empty and hollow. “How do you not feel?”

Mycroft shifts against him, breaking the kiss, and Greg glances up at him, surprised at the weary, broken look he finds. “It’s not a case of not feeling,” Mycroft says with no inflection. “Caring is simply a weakness that I cannot afford to show.”

\--

Greg’s not sure how or when they start sleeping together, but he becomes used to waking up to another body curled up around him, covers drawn off him because Mycroft’s an unrepentant blanket hog.

At this point, Greg has his own drawer at Mycroft’s house, and there’s an extra toothbrush in both of their bathrooms, but putting a name to their—situation would lend a sense of formality and realness that their relationship doesn’t have. They’re not dating, because that requires a level of commitment and communication beyond an unspoken agreement of exclusivity.

But, this time, it’s not Greg with the commitment issues. The one time he’d tried to broach the topic, Mycroft had stared at him like he’d seen a ghost, fleeing out the door with excuses of work. He hasn’t tried again since.

The sex is phenomenal, though, and at least that’s something.

And, just as Greg’s getting comfortable in their—situation, Sherlock comes back.

\--

Formally, he meets Sherlock as he’s walking through the car park on his way back home, where they hug and then part ways soon after.

 

Informally, he tugs Sherlock into a shadowed corner of the abandoned lot and interchanges pressing kisses against Sherlock’s lips and biting large red bruises against his neck.

“How could you,” he whispers, letting his head fall against Sherlock’s shoulder, face hidden by the idiot’s stupid coat. “I thought you were dead.” He has to physically restrain his tears, not wanting to ruin this moment.

He feels arms enveloping him in a hug. “I’m—I’m sorry,” Sherlock says awkwardly, like the words are foreign to his tongue. “I know that isn’t enough—John was quite clear about that,” he clears his throat before continuing. “But it was necessary.”

“You’re a prat,” he says. “I shouldn’t forgive you.”

There’s a pause. “No, you shouldn’t.”

“But.” Greg sighs. “God knows why, I do.” He’s allowed so many concessions to Sherlock in the past, opened himself to risk and hurt, and, like a true masochist, he never learns.

A hand tips his head up until he’s forced to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “I recall we discussed calculating a baseline.”

Greg can’t help but laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “We did.”

\--

Sherlock follows him back to his flat, where they find Mycroft has already set up shop. The dining table’s set for three, with Mycroft sitting at the head, spine stiff and rigid with tension.

“I’ve no intention of intervening in your relationship,” he says, right as they step through the hallway. “I understand what the past two years have been.”

Greg blinks. “What?”

Mycroft gives them both a strained smile. “That I was a convenient replacement for my darling brother.”

Greg blinks again. “Come again?”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Mycroft. We can share.”

 

Which is how Greg finds himself stripped naked on his bed, staring at both Sherlock and Mycroft with a wide expression of confusion. “What?” he asks again.

Unfortunately, it seems they’re lost in their own little world at the moment, with Sherlock busy unbuttoning his brother’s ever-present collared shirt, pressing a loving kiss to his collarbone.

“You’re sure?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “ _Yes_ ,” he stresses. “Let go. Just this once.” He pulls Mycroft into a kiss this time, while Greg just becomes more confused and has the odd, sinking feeling that he’s dreaming.

“You—you two,” he says in a daze.

“Have done this before, yes,” Mycroft says, finally looking away from Sherlock to smirk at Greg. The stiffness in his back is gone, spine curving to relax into his brother’s embrace. “Incest is hardly the worst taboo we’ve violated.”

Greg’s not quite sure how broken his moral compass is when he finds that statement more arousing than anything else. “Oh,” he manages to choke out. “Right.”

Sherlock raises a hand to guide his brother into another kiss, and Greg can see him push in with tongue this time, hands reaching underneath Mycroft’s shirt to rest at his waist.

And well, thinks Greg hysterically, why settle for one brother when he can have two?

“So what was that bit about sharing?” he asks.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and glances over. “Feeling left out, are we?”

He shifts uncomfortably on the bed, feeling oddly pinned by the weight of Sherlock and Mycroft's combined gazes. “Can’t let you two have all the fun,” he says with all the bravado he can manage.

“Needy,” Mycroft murmurs, carefully breaking his brother’s hold to join Greg on the bed. He eyes Greg’s rising dick with a smirk. “And so eager.”

Greg flushes, because, no, voyeurism has never been his thing before—but Christ if it didn’t become one now, with the show those two made. He pulls Mycroft in by his collar, helping to remove his arms from the sleeves as he pushes Mycroft to sit upright against the headboard and stealing his own kiss.

“Oh, don’t worry, your enthusiasm’s quite flattering,” Sherlock says. “It’s been some time since my brother and I have found a receptive partner we both approved of.”

Greg’s too busy sucking bruises against Mycroft’s clavicle to reply, hands inching their way down his thighs. Mycroft sighs in appreciation, letting his head loll back. “No worry here,” Mycroft says, hand combing through Greg’s hair. “He’s quite willing.”

Greg feels warmth against his back—a hand brushing against his hips before gripping his cock. His head drops to Mycroft’s chest, groaning as he thrusts his hips, aiming for friction but ending with air.

“Enthusiastic, even,” says Sherlock, smirk obvious in his tone even when Greg can’t see. “He’s positively _gagging_ for it, don’t you think?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You know I detest hyperbole.”

“Mm.” Sherlock continues to lazily pull at Greg’s cock, now joined by Sherlock’s own dick pressing against the curve of his arse to thrust in time with his strokes. Greg backs into the feeling, heady off the sensation even as he kisses his way down Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft’s hands in his hair tighten as Greg licks and sucks along his abdominals, and he moves his hands down to rest by Mycroft’s hip, stroking softly with his thumbs as he lays kisses against his thighs.

He’s always found a certain amount of pleasure in going down on Mycroft, in seeing his tightly held control finally, gradually crack—little sighs and moans, the slightest shifts of his hips, an elevated pulse and his breathing, heavy and laboured, as he finally, _finally_ lets go and frantically thrusts his way down Greg’s throat.

Greg looks up then, deliberately staring straight into Mycroft’s eyes, dark now with pupils dilated, and licks his lips, mouth stretching into a filthy grin.

Through it all, he hears shuffling behind him and Sherlock’s weight and heat disappears for a moment only to be replaced by his fingers, covered in slick. There’s pressure at his hole before it slips away, pressing at his perineum instead.

He arches his back, leaning into Sherlock’s touch and lowering his mouth to Mycroft’s cock. He wraps a hand around the base, holding it steady while he sucks at the head, tongue laving over the tip.

Mycroft gasps—a small, sweet thing—hips bucking up and Greg feels a hand in his hair, grabbing the short strands. “I always liked your hair longer,” he hears before the hand is _pulling_ and he groans around the dick in his mouth.

He nearly chokes when Sherlock pushes two fingers up his arse, momentum pressing him hard against Mycroft. “Relax,” Sherlock murmurs.

Greg turns to shoot him an incredulous glare. “You’re shoving fingers up my arse while I’m sucking off your brother and you tell me to _relax_?”

The look on Sherlock’s face is nonchalant, even as he slides a third finger in. “Yes,” he says quite pleasantly.

Mycroft lets out an impatient grunt, tugging softly at Greg’s hair and trying to steer him back to his dick. “Riling him up will do no good,” he says, though Greg doesn't know who he's referring to. But he obediently leans down to take Mycroft back into his mouth, moving both hands to pin Mycroft’s hips down.

The fingers leave his arse and then Sherlock’s dick is pushing _in_ , and Greg sucks Mycroft in further. He feels full, almost oversensitive, and he shifts his hips back, taking more of Sherlock in with a groan.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, pulling out slightly before pushing back in with a thrust that knocks the air from Greg’s lungs. “Just as tight as I remember.”

Greg moans as Sherlock’s next thrust hits his prostate, and Mycroft’s thighs twitch under his hands. “You should see yourself,” he hears, but he’s too far gone to recognize which brother it is. He thinks it might be Mycroft, with his enunciated diction and breathy sighs. “Speared on two cocks and enjoying every moment.”

He whines, struggling to breathe through his nose but almost coughing around the dick in his mouth. The movements behind him stop, and his hips push back of their own volition, hoping to feel the rough press of Sherlock’s dick against his prostate.

“Look at how much you love this,” he hears through his daze. “Are you going to come just from this? Without a hand on you, just from a cock up your throat and another in your arse?”

He subconsciously registers the push and pull that they use him with—forward, and he’s choking on Mycroft’s cock, backward, and he’s impaling himself on Sherlock’s—and he’s never been harder in his life. They’re right, he could come right now, without any stimulation on his dick, just through the pleasure of feeling so utterly _full_ and used and—

“We want to see you,” one of them says, voice deep and husky. “Come off for us,” says the other.

—he comes, arms shuddering enough to collapse beneath him as he drops to his side, eyes lolling back.

He registers a hand running softly through his hair and another stroking down his side before he blacks out, mind shutting down through pure overstimulation.

“He’s coming to,” he hears and recognizes as Mycroft. The hand petting his hair must also be Mycroft’s, based off proximity.

“Oh, great, I thought we’d broken him.” There’s a dip in the bed, and Greg feels another pair of hands against his face. “It’d be a pity to waste such potential.”

“Potential?” he asks, voice coming out rough and hoarse. He coughs and opens an eye, looking straight into Sherlock’s curious face. “How terrifying to think about.”

Sherlock snorts, pushing a cup of water to Greg’s lips. “You’d be surprised at the lack of imagination we’ve encountered.”

Mycroft sighs. “What my dear brother is trying to say is how much we enjoyed this—tryst. And to gauge how receptive you’d be to a repeat performance in the future.”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Separately, Sherlock and Mycroft had already given him with some of the best orgasms in his life. Together—together they were scorching hot and gifted him with a piece of Nirvana. “Absolutely.”

“Told you.” Sherlock says with a smug smirk that almost makes Greg regret his earlier enthusiasm. But he’s become inured to Sherlock’s dickish personality through sheer exposure, and Mycroft’s put-on sigh means that at least he’s not alone.

“Astute as always,” Mycroft says dryly, and Greg can practically hear him roll his eyes.

This is the life he’s found himself in, surrounded by the two most intelligent and infuriating men he’s ever met, and he’s hard-pressed to feel anything but contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> ty to my friend who read this over for me and didn't laugh.


End file.
